Love. Attention. Acknowledgment. Praise. Support.
I have all of it now, and truly, life couldn’t be sweeter.
I don’t know if I deserve it, this sudden change in fate, but I’m going to embrace it like I do.
We arrive at Lizbeth at eight and have two hours to unload my stuff before my orientation begins at ten. From the looks of it, the dorm’s architecture is far more modern than that of the academic buildings I’ve seen thus far on campus. The sharp-angled exterior is made of slate gray concrete and towering floor-to-ceiling windows. The harsh lines and minimalist design are far more suited to the big city than a quaint little town like this.
We grab a luggage cart from the art-filled lobby, skillfully avoiding several student-made sculptures on display pillars as we push it out to the parking lot before piling it high with my stuff. Back in the lobby, we take the paned glass elevator to the third floor and walk down the plush carpeted hall to room 313. Since I haven’t been issued a key yet, I knock on the door. Muffled shuffling reaches my ears seconds before the door creaks open.
Standing before me is a strikingly beautiful woman around my age. She’s dressed in what might be the most stylish outfit I’ve ever seen: a high-waisted plaid skirt over fishnet stockings and pointed booties, with a cropped sweater vest under a colorfullyembroidered black leather jacket. The ensemble is a walking contradiction: chic, yet rebelliously edgy at the same time. Her black hair falls in curly ringlets to the tops of her shoulders and the color of her eyes nearly matches the dark brown of her skin.
She scoffs. “You must be my new roommate, then.”
“Uh, yeah. Hi, I’m Maeve.” I hold out my hand for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She scrutinizes my hand for so long that, after a few awkward moments, I force myself to drop it.
“Mhm, well, I gotta get to class. Your key is on your desk, but first, you should know that I have three rules when it comes to roommates.” She pauses to make sure I’m paying attention, but like, what the hell is wrong with her? Of course I am. “One. Don’t touch my stuff. Two. Don’t bring other people into our room without my permission. Three. Don’t assume us rooming together makes us insta-besties, okay?”
Mom and I stare at her slack-jawed; two deer caught in the headlights.
My lips open and close a few times before I’m finally able to produce words. “Yeah, okay.”
“’K, bye,” she says as she pushes past me and Mom.
“Well, isn’t she sweet as pie?” Mom asks with a conspiratorial giggle.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure her, brushing off the awkward tension.
With a glance, the dorm room comes into view, spacious and well-furnished; the gigantic windows I noticed from the parking lot let in copious amounts of natural light. Now that I have a second to look around, I understand why my new roommate was less than pleased to suddenly have to share her space. Her stuff iseverywhere. A mixture of pictures, posters, and art prints take up every spare inch of wall space, both closets are filled to the brim with her clothes, and the only unoccupied space in the bathroom is a single measly drawer.
I put away stuff where I can and leave the rest in boxes. We’ll just have to figure it out later. I check the time on my phone and realize I have twenty minutes to make it to the Dalí Building for orientation. Mom and I go back down to the parking lot and get in her car. Our destination is close, so it only takes us five minutes to drive there.
Before I get out, Mom squeezes the breath from my lungs.
“Good luck,” she murmurs in my ear, lingering in the hug a while longer.
“Thanks.” I swallow hard against the emotions that threaten to boil over. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, sweetie.”
With less fanfare than earlier this morning, I watch her drive away, an uneasy feeling blooming in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly, I feel too alone. For a heartbeat, I worry whether transferring to Lizbeth was a mistake, but before I can dwell on the budding uncertainty, an unfamiliar voice calls my name, “Maeve Johnson! Hey! Is that you?”
I turn toward the sound and reply awkwardly as I watch someone approach, “Um—hi. That’s me.” A young man sporting a wide grin comes to an abrupt stop before me.
“Awesome. Hi, I’m Franco. He/him pronouns. I’ll be your orientation tour guide.”
Franco is not much taller than me, even with his wavy brown hair swept up into a bun at the crown of his head. When he turns his brown-eyed gaze toward the building for a moment, I notice the hair at the nape of his neck is buzzed short in an undercut, and as he holds out his hand for me to shake, I take in the charcoal stains on his tan fingers. He must have been sketching just before this. When I shake his hand, his smile miraculously brightens, teeth white and perfectly straight.
“Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Maeve. She/her pronouns.”
I let him go quickly, and his arm falls back to his side. “Are you ready to get started? I’ve got to have you back here in an hour for the boring part of your orientation.”
I chuckle, pleasantly surprised by his candor. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Great. So, obviously, this is the Dalí Building,” explains Franco with a flourish of his open hand to our left, “the main building for the painting courses. From what I’ve been told, you’re a painter, so you’ll likely be spending most of your class time in here.”
The red brick building is colossal and gothic with its pointed arch doorways, slender, dome-topped windows, and thick, tangled vines of dark green ivy splaying up toward the roof. The sight gives me a sense of centuries past, even though I know the university isn’t that old.The goth vibe must be an aesthetic choice then, I note curiously.Interesting.
